John Toole - A Confederacy of Dunces

What would Mr. Levy do? Abelman, unfortunately, was apparently a rather petty person, a man too small to accept a little criticism, a hypersensitive molecule of a human. He had written to the wrong person; the militant and courageous broadside had been delivered before the wrong audience. At this point his nervous system could not manage a court trial. He would break down completely before the judge. He wondered how long it would be before Mr. Levy descended upon him again. What senile conundrums was Miss Trixie babbling to Mr. Levy? An infuriated and confused Mr. Levy would return, this time determined to have him incarcerated at once. Now waiting for this return was like waiting for an execution. The dull headache persisted. The Dr. Nuts tasted like gall. Abelman certainly wanted a great deal of money; that sensitive plant of an Abelman must have been greatly offended. When the true author of the letter was discovered, what would Abelman demand in lieu of $500 thousand? A life?

The Dr. Nuts seemed only as an acid gurgling down into his intestine. He filled with gas, the sealed valve trapping it just as one pinches the mouth of a balloon. Great eructations rose from his throat and bounced upward toward the refuse-laden bowl of the milk glass chandelier. Once a person was asked to step into this brutal century, anything could happen. Everywhere there lurked pitfalls like Abelman, the insipid Crusaders for Moorish Dignity, the Mancuso cretin, Dorian Greene, newspaper reporters, stripteasers, birds, photography, juvenile delinquents, Nazi pornographers. And especially Myrna Minkoff. The musky minx must be dealt with. Somehow. Someday. She must pay. Whatever happened, he must attend to her even if the revenge took years and he had to stalk her through decades from one coffee shop to another, from one folk singing orgy to another, from subway train to pad to cotton field to demonstration. Ignatius invoked an elaborate Elizabethan curse upon Myrna and, rolling over, frantically abused the glove once more.

How dare his mother contemplate a marriage. Only someone as simpleminded as she could be so disloyal. The aged fascist would conduct witchhunt after witchhunt until the formerly intact Ignatius J. Reilly was reduced to a fragmented and mumbling vegetable. The aged fascist would testify for Mr. Levy so that his future stepson would be locked away and he would be free to satisfy his warped and archaic desires upon the unsuspecting Irene Reilly, to perform his conservative practices upon Irene Reilly with free enterprise. Prostitutes were not protected by the Social Security and unemployment compensation systems. No doubt the Robichaux roué was thus attracted to them. Only Fortuna knew what he had learned at their hands.

Mrs. Reilly listened to the squeaking and belching emanating from her son’s room and wondered whether, on top of everything else, he were having a fit. But she didn’t want to look at Ignatius. Whenever she heard his door opening, she tried to run to her room to avoid him. Five hundred thousand dollars was a sum she could not even imagine. She could hardly imagine the punishment given someone who had done something bad enough to be worth five hundred thousand. If there were any cause for suspicion on Mr. Levy’s part, there was none on hers. Ignatius had written whatever it was. Wouldn’t this be fine? Ignatius in jail. There was only one way to save him. She carried the telephone as far down the hall as she could, and for the fourth time that day, she dialed Santa Battaglia’s number.

“Lord, honey, you really worried,” Santa said. “What happened now?”

“I’m afraid Ignatius is in worst trouble than just a picture in the paper,” Mrs. Reilly whispered. “I can’t talk over the phone. Santa, you was right all along. Ignatius gotta go to the Charity.”

“Well, at last. I been talking myself hoarse telling you that. Claude just rang up a little while ago. He says Ignatius made a big scene at the hospital when they met. Claude says he’s ascared of Ignatius, he’s so big.”

“Ain’t that awful. It was terrible in the hospital. I already told you how Ignatius started screaming. All them nurses and sick people. I coulda died. Claude ain’t too angry, huh?”

“He ain’t angry, but he don’t like you being alone in that house. He ax me if maybe him and me shouldn’t come over there and stay with you.”

“Don’t do that, babe,” Mrs. Reilly said quickly.

“What kinda trouble Ignatius is in now?”

“I’ll tell you later. Right now I can only say I been thinking about this Charity business all day, and I finally made up my mind. Now is the time. He’s my own child, but we gotta get him treated for his own sake.” Mrs. Reilly tried to think of the phrase that was always used in courtroom dramas on TV. “We gotta get him declared temporary insane.”

“Temporary?” Santa scoffed.

“We gotta help out Ignatius before they come drag him off.”

“Who’s gonna drag him off?”

“It seem like he pulled a boo-boo when he was working at Levy Pants.”

“Oh, Lord! Not something else. Irene! Hang up and call them people at the Charity right now, honey.”

“No, listen. I don’t wanna be here when they come. I mean, Ignatius is big. He might make trouble. I couldn’t stand that. My nerves is bad enough now.”

“Big is right. It’ll be like capturing a wild elephant. Them people better have them a great big net,” Santa said eagerly. “Irene, this is the best decision you ever made. I tell you what. I’ll call up the Charity right now. You come over here. I’ll get Claude to come over, too. He’ll sure be glad to hear this. Whoo! You’ll be sending out wedding invitations in about a week. You gonna have you some little properties before the year’s out, sweetheart. You gonna have you a railroad pension.”

It all sounded good to Mrs. Reilly, but she asked a little hesitantly, “What about them communiss?”

“Don’t worry about them, darling. We’ll get rid of them communiss. Claude’s gonna be too busy fixing up that house of yours. He’s gonna have his hands full turning Ignatius’s room into a den.”

Santa broke into some baritone peals of laughter.

“Miss Annie’s gonna turn green when she sees this place fixed up.”

“Then tell that woman, say, ‘You go out and shake yourself a little. You’ll get your house fixed up, too.’” Santa guffawed. “Now get off the line, babe, and get over here. I’m calling the Charity right now. Get out that house fast!”

Santa slammed the telephone down in Mrs. Reilly’s ear.

Mrs. Reilly looked out the front shutters. It was very dark now, which was good. The neighbors would not see too much if they took Ignatius away during the night. She ran into the bathroom and powdered her face and the front of her dress, drew a surrealistic version of a mouth beneath her nose, and dashed into her bedroom to find a coat. When she got to the front door, she stopped. She couldn’t say goodbye to Ignatius like this. He was her child.

She went up to his bedroom door and listened to the wildly twanging bedsprings as they reached a crescendo, as they built toward a finale worthy of Grieg’s In the Hall of the Mountain King. She knocked, but there was no answer.

“Ignatius,” she called sadly.

“What do you want?” a breathless voice asked at last.

“I’m going out, Ignatius. I wanted to say goodbye.”

Ignatius did not answer.

“Ignatius, open up,” Mrs. Reilly pleaded. “Come kiss me goodbye, honey.”

“I don’t feel at all well. I can hardly move.”

“Come on, son.”

The door opened slowly. Ignatius stuck his fat gray face into the hall. His mother’s eyes watered when she saw the bandage.

“Now kiss me, honey. I’m sorry it all had to end like this.”